With Extreme Prejudice
by redcheck15
Summary: A government agency discovers the existence of the Viper Team, and marks them for termination.
1. Default Chapter

Foreword:  
  
I am a firm believer that the 1980's was the era of great TV shows. It was the era of Reaganomics. It was a time of tension, where the Soviets and the Americans vied for World Domination as a Super Power. It was a time of peril, where one wrong decision, one wrong move could and would have resulted in nuclear war. Missiles were pointed at the US, and missiles were pointed at the Former USSR. Intelligence and espionage was at an all- time high, and military spending grew beyond all proportions. During this time, the fever of Patriotism was at an all-time high. And TV executive and the writer community sat up and took notice.  
  
Boy did they take notice.  
  
Pretty soon, they had all manner of semi-militant shows pumping out to feed the patriotic crowd. Shows such as The A-Team, Knight Rider, Miami Vice, Airwolf, Blue Thunder, Magnum P.I., Street Hawk, MacGyver, The Greatest American Hero, all had one theme in common: Get The Bad Guy. And the public ate it up wholesale. It was exactly what they wanted to see: there was a bad guy (a symbolization for the Soviets), there was a plot of the bad guys oppressing the public wherever they were (a symbolization of the American public), and then there were the good guys (American heros), who habitually came along as the underdog to the scene, and in a glorious all- out violent battle, opened up barrels of whoop-ass and lay the smack-down on the bad guys rather handily. For 10 or so years, the producers and writers of TV shows enthralled the general public with this simple formulae. It worked time and time again, as evidenced by the long syndication runs of the above-mentioned TV shows. Whether it was a team of wise-cracking, overconfident (and seemingly out-of-shape elite commandos) soldiers-for-hire, or one man and his high-tech and self-aware car against the world, or good-looking vice cops (who wore clothes way beyond their pay grade), or a team of nobodies who had sole claim to a state-of-the-art helicopter capable of taking on the Soviets by themselves, or the aerial division of the police who had an ultra-mean helicopter, or a lone Private Investigator who drove a Ferrari (and looked really cool in the process), or a police officer who had been chosen to test out a prototype motorcycle that was souped-up beyond all belief (can you see the trend here?), or a man who used his intelligence to beat his adversaries (and could make anything out of anything and had a cool theme song to help the show along), or the wonkee University Professor with the big 'fro who was also a part- time super hero with no clue on how to work his super-hero suit (but did the job AND had an award-winning musical theme composed by David Bowie to help it along), never mattered. The public simply loved these shows. Even with their sometimes-cheesy plots (ok, they were quite cheesy), they nevertheless got the heart pumping and the kids going nuts.  
  
The late 1980's to 1990's saw a transitional phase. The public's appetite had started to change. Reagen was leaving office, the Soviet's were having bad cash-flow troubles, America's military spending had spiralled wildly out of control, and Bill Gates woke up one morning and said, "Wait a minute…why don't I copy Macintosh's idea of a User Interface and name it Windows?" Not only that, but the computer revolution was about to take off into outer space…literally. It was also a time where the public had gotten a little tired of the ever-reminiscent theme found in TV shows. Thus it was a time for change, and most TV producers were ever-so-quick to pick up on that. This could be evidenced by the TV show Quantum leap. This show was an elaborate show that mated computer effects and a dramatic storyline. It was a show of suspense, intrigue, and science. It was also a stellar hit. But it was also a transitional show. No longer were TV shows using the 80's formulae of running gun battles, and good guys laying the smack- down on the bad guys. The TV shows of the Quantum Leap era focused on substantial story line, intelligent plots, and well-rounded characters. Following in Quantum Leap's stellar footprints was Star Trek: The Next Generation. This show left behind Captain Kirk's shoot first, shoot later, shoot some more, and then ask questions when everyone was dead or unconscious (though Captain Kirk was wayyyyy cool!). It too, followed Quantum Leap's example of substance, and gave the public entertainment that was full of story, sustenance, morals, and sometimes a good ol' the-hell- with-it, just shoot'em (read: Borg).  
  
But then something interesting happened. The formulae just seemed too good. The public clamoured for more. "No," they said to plots that involved mainly action to carry the story, and "yes" they said to drama plots. The stories of the mid-1990's took on a new plot. They were (for the most part) filled with drama and angst, intrigue and mystery. They were styled after real-life situations, and no longer the unbelievable scenarios of the 80's TV shows (I mean, c'mon! Did the members of the A- Team ever HIT anyone?? And just how many times could the Airwolf team sneak into the Soviet Union, lay the smack-down, and get out all in one piece?). The latter part of the 1990's had evolved into shows like 90210 (if you don't know what those numbers stand for, you need help – either that or you're REALLY old), the X-Files, Degrassi High, Baywatch, Law and Order, etc… No longer were shows about good guys and bad guys. They were mostly about mystery, drama, relationships, broken hearts and yes, SEX. Never before did TV show so much skin (or so little clothing). Never before did TV approach violent subject matters with such casual aplomb, and (slightly off topic, but nevertheless important), never before did TV carry a message that would begin to devastate the young female population: you had to be VERY skinny and VERY good-looking to make it anywhere in the world. Plus, smoking was now THE in thing to do. Perhaps I digress here, but the mid 1990's were a turning point for TV shows. The 1980's formulae was not applicable anymore. Though some producers tried, most shows based on that old formulae floundered and died a gruesome death. Simply put, very little of the general public was interested in that formulae anymore. There were, of course, some die-hard attempts to bring some shows back to life – such as Knight Rider, or its Off-spring, Team Knight Rider. But that gurgled to death, more so because of REALLY BAD scripting and storyline than public interest. Thus, the 80's movement was dead…or so it seemed. But in the late 1990's the 90's formula would be given its last heave-ho. And to be honest, not everyone was enamoured with the power-cord intro of 90210.  
  
The mid 1990's saw an unprecedented event take place – the near death of the automotive maker Dodge. Now, as many of old fossils know (read: anyone born before the 80's), Dodge has been around for a long, long, long time. Dodge produced vehicles that numbered among heavy hitters like Ford. And yet, something happened to that big company, something that caused its future to become washed in peril. During the mid 1900's, the automotive market began flooding with both domestic and foreign cars. During this time of automotive history, many car companies and self-respected car guru's laughed off the cars that were coming from Japan. These small, lightweight cars, with engines that were not naturally aspirated (did not have nearly the power that American cars were capable of), frames that were far more vulnerable than American cars, and bodies that crushed like tin- cans compared to American cars, were the laughing stock of the automotive industry. To think that these little cars could even begin to compare with names such as Mustang, or Camero, or Firebird, or Trans-Am, was ridiculous and stuff made of meaningless dreams. Dodge, being firmly entrenched in the American dream, shook their collective heads and laughed at the over- seas belligerency. They firmly believed that the age of 'hot-rodding' would never die, of big and large block engines that roared when you commanded them to, of cars that encased the driver in layers upon layers of metal. In their vanity, they missed the subtle signs of a shifting consumer market, and were left holding the short stick. The auto industry seemingly transformed overnight, and by the time Dodge realized that they were dead- wrong in their strategy, they had been left behind, choking on the dust cloud of the other automakers, and in serious financial trouble.  
  
The mid 1990's saw the consumer based switching to cars made by Japan. As each day went by, the names Honda, Acura, Toyota, Nissan, and Lexus became more prevalent. More air-emission taxes, coupled with increasing gasoline prices, caused the majority consumer base to begin looking for fuel- efficient cars. Near the end of the 1990's, Dodge found itself without a customer base. Other automakers had started making smaller and more compact cars, just like the Japanese. The consumer base also began switching to the smaller cars. No longer did the public want large, powerful cars that guzzled gas. And because of that decision, Dodge was left floundering in the wake of the automobile revolution. Dodge came perilously close to selling itself off. In a last ditch effort to keep it from drowning, Dodge stubbornly took its large American car designs and revolutionized it. They needed something unnatural, something from left field, something that the public had never seen before, and something that was all American – big, powerful, and bad.  
  
They succeeded. Thus was born the 'Viper'.  
  
The Viper was a car that simply floored the collective public. Its shape and design caused a stir of envy among car enthusiasts. The fact that this car became an overnight sensation is, in itself, quite interesting. The Viper RT/10's design was, by many racing standards, quite flawed. It's incredibly powerful engine outputted extremely high levels of raw torque, such that it easily caused massive fishtailing in hard power-up situations. The car itself, given its lack of mechanical assistance in handling control, was brutal to drive. Its coefficient air-friction factor was large – meaning that it burned a tremendous amount of fuel due to air drag. But even with all its deficiencies, the Viper seemingly carved out a large following of enthusiasts soon after its unveiling. Its popularity soared beyond all expectations. The Dodge Viper first began selling for approximately $65,000 Canadian, which at the time was approximately $50,000 American. But in no time at all, the Viper sales figures had rocketed into the low $100,000. Its success was so astounding, Dodge decided to boost it even more by creating a syndication that centered solely around its star vehicle. It was called 'Viper'.  
  
The TV show Viper centered around a core of special policed officers, who were tasked with the daunting duty of bring their city back from the brink of criminal infestation. To assist them in their goal, they were given a prototype urban assault vehicle named 'The Defender. The Defender was to be an ultra-sophisticated combat vehicle that hid within the anonymous shell of a normal street car: the Viper. At will, the team of officers could transform the vehicle into a state-of-the-art assault platform in order to deal with extremely dangerous situations. Unfortunately for the syndication, it was clichéd as it sounded. This formulae had been tried an untold number of times in the past (Knight Rider, Team Knight Rider, Airwolf, Blue Thunder, Street Hawk, etc…). Even with the backing of Dodge, the syndication lost steam only a few years after its beginning.  
  
Many fans, like myself, wanted to see this show succeed. To be honest, I am a fan of the 1980's. I still enjoy seeing the old formula of good guys and their high-tech vehicles laying the smack-down on the baddies. But in the 1990's and early 2000's, sophistication is the name of successful TV shows (that and a mixture of pure sex appeal). To me, the level of story- telling in the Viper shows lacked interest. It seemed that the writers and the producers attempted to use special effects and the Viper to make the show popular. But, as most people know from watching the movies, that does not always work. There are only so many times you can watch the Viper on TV before it becomes old hat. So it was of no surprise to find the show cancelled after a few seasons. That being said, the TV show 'Viper' was just that: a TV show. It was created by the dreams and aspirations of people like you and I. And as long as there are people who dream, there will always be storytellers to enthral.  
  
-WL  
  
P.S. This is a work of fiction. Characters of Viper are not mine, nor do I claim any rights. Because this is a work of fiction, I have taken certain liberties with real world 'stuff'. Please don't roll your eyes in disbelief…too much. Enjoy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
METRO POLICE DEPARTMENT  
  
CONFIDENTIAL TRANSCRIPT OF INTERNAL RECORDS  
  
  
  
Contents: Transcript of Inquiry  
  
Sergeant Franklin S. Waters  
  
May 14, 2002  
  
Re: death of Detective Aster and Westlake  
  
  
  
This transcript is the property of the Metro police department. Unauthorized reproduction of any or all internal contents carries severe penalties.  
  
  
  
Direct all inquiries to:  
  
Commanding Officer  
  
Internal Affairs Division  
  
Metro City Police Department  
  
PO Box 3746  
  
Metro City, DC 48374-9574  
  
Telephone: (847) 444-8574  
  
Telefax: (472) 444-2481  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
General Inquiry: Sergeant Franklin S. Waters 14/05/02  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Case: Inquiry into the death of Detectives Joe Aster and Cameron Westlake  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Description of inquiry: Subject (Sgt. Waters) was interrogated for 48 hours before being allowed to proceed to an inquiry. Inquiry was recorded on DVD-RAM Video Disc.  
  
  
  
Description of image: Subject (Waters) seated at table in Inquiry Room 4-ab, Metro HQ. Image includes the Commanding Officer of IA (COIA) , Investigating Officer of IA (IOIA), Commanding Officer of Metro City Police Department (COMCPD), Liason Sherman Catlett (FBI), and subject with full body shot. Subject has on formal uniform, is dishevelled in appearance, and exhibits signs of severe depression.  
  
  
  
Purpose of interrogation: Clarification of Subject role in a classified operation, in which partners Aster and Westlake were killed in the line of duty (file #KIA 76299473). Subject waived his right to an attorney.  
  
  
  
Disposition of case: Case ongoing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Transcript of: May 22(1)  
  
  
  
  
  
COIA: Sergeant. Please state your name for the record.  
  
  
  
SUBJ: (unresponsive)  
  
COIA: Sergeant?  
  
SUBJ: Franklin S. Waters. Serial Number 35421.  
  
COMPD: Could you please identify yourself for the record?  
  
SUBJ: I'm thirty-five years old. Sergeant, Special Projects Division. Metro City Police Department.  
  
COIA: Sergeant Waters, as you know, you are not being charged with a crime at this time.  
  
SUBJ: Yes.  
  
FBI: I know this must be real hard for you.  
  
SUBJ: Yes.  
  
COIA: Sergeant. I would like you to start from the beginning.  
  
SUBJ: On March 22, 2002, we (partners Astor and Westlake) were alerted by an intelligence source that a local military R&D installation had been broken into. Our team, at the behest of the local FBI authority, began a preliminary investigation into the matter.  
  
  
  
  
  
P.S. This is a work of fiction. Characters of Viper are not mine, nor do I claim any rights. Because this is a work of fiction, I have taken certain liberties with real world 'stuff'. Please don't roll your eyes in disbelief…too much. Enjoy.  
  
-WL  
  
  
  
1.1.1.1 WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE  
  
  
  
2 Chapter 1  
  
  
  
Frankie was carefully inserting the last of the wires into the Defender's new diagnostic board. The work was painstakingly slow, partly because of the Defender's computer system that regulated the complicated engine, but also because the engine was so customized, it went beyond any spec he had ever worked on. He awkwardly reached down to his waist pocket and fished out the diagnostic PDA. The Viper's engine generated an incredible amount of PSI, so much that Frankie wanted to check every single step of the modification. If he didn't, if he made one small error (which he never did), the Defender would blow the hood 200 meters into the sky, and the explosion from the engine would likely cook his two partners in an instant, armour plating or not.  
  
The Ion Generator system was a new addition to the Viper's high-tech engine. The real reason for the upgrade was that the Team was beginning to find themselves in too many prolonged high-speed pursuits. High-speed pursuits were among the most deadly hostile situations police officers could encounter. Next to domestic violence, a high-speed police chases more often than not ended in the deaths of innocent bystanders. Even worse, many high-speed pursuits were the cause of countless vehicular wrecks, some taking the lives of the felons, and at times even the lives of the police officers. Though these speed chases may seem like vivid excitement when shot from a TV camera 200 ft up, they are nothing but accidents waiting to happen. Many end in tragedy, often taking the lives of those who did not deserve to die.  
  
Frankie hoped, sincerely hoped, that this new unit would allow the Defender to overpower the running vehicles quickly and efficiently. God knew they didn't need anymore civilian deaths. The last death had been a nine-year old girl, who had been crushed upon impact while sitting in front of an ice- cream parlour. It could have been prevented, if the Defender had had a little more speed in her. The range of its electro-pulses was short, and Astor and Westlake hadn't been able to get the range until too late.  
  
But the new unit he was testing might be the answer to that. The concept had been an accumulation of ECM technology deployed by the military. The concept of Electronic Counter-Measures had been around for a very long time. In fact, a large percentage of war in the modern day was fought with the aid of computers. Computers aided in the planning of scenarios (they could calculate more scenarios per second (given a set of parameters) than a human), they supplied an overwhelmingly large percentage of intelligence, then more-or-less drove the war machines (guided by humans), then calculated the trajectory of missiles (or in the case of the new 'bulpbubs' developed by the US Military – calculated exactly where to explode a 20 mm grenade with deadly accuracy and shrapnel effect), and with the aid of nightvision, or thermal vision, or infrared, kill an enemy. ECM was the direct method of combat against computers in the battle-field. Its purpose was to bombard computers with more information than they could handle. In effect, it would 'confuse' computer-driven equipment long enough for the attackers to accomplish their missions.  
  
The Ion Generator that had been installed inside the Viper's engine bay was an offshoot of this technology. The IG was a miniature EM machine. EM (or Electro Magnetic radiation) was as old as nuclear bombs – older even. When nuclear weapons were first invented, they conceived the term 'dirty radiation'. The term Dirty Radiation can be attributed to the spectrum of radiation that 'polluted' left behind after a nuclear explosion. (though present day nuclear energy is marginally cleaner, a nuclear fallout would be no less deadly). One band in particular resulted from a nuclear explosion. This spectrum of radiation existed within the EM band – the Electromagnetic Band. An Electromagnetic Magnetic Pulse (as it became known) had the ability to permanently disrupt any mechanism that used capacitors as part of its technology. Since nearly all circuit boards rely on capacitors as part of their makeup, an since circuit boards are an integral part of our lives, one intense EMP World-Wide would plunge the world into chaos – theoretically.  
  
However, the IG unit was a slightly modified version of an EMP generator. Firstly, it carried its own internal Plutonium power source. Thus there was no need for the Viper's own batteries to supply the charging power. It also shortened the waiting period between Pulses considerably. Secondly, the IG emitter was directional, meaning that it had a specific field of fire. What Frankie and the testing team hoped was that the IG unit could replace the Viper's Twin Electro Pulse Modulator's. To be sure, the EPM's had been a terrific success, but over time, it had proven to be too cumbersome to use. The twin EPM's had to be manually aimed, and doing so during a high-speed pursuit was ultimately very dangerous. Not only that, but there was also a chance of the Pulse missing it's intended target. A quick-reaction driver could swerve their vehicle out of the way as soon as they saw the pulse being emitted. Basically, the IG unit was designed to target a car's braking system. The drive-by-wire system had been in use for almost 5 years now. Presently, most cars were built upon the drive-by- wire system. No longer did cars have to depend on hydraulic lines, or machines to regulate pressure and apply power - computer chips and sensors did all that. Cars benefited from the new system by becoming significantly lighter. The Viper Team benefited from it because of the IG unit. The EMP pulse was specifically designed to fry the computer system of a car instantly. All cars were designed so that in the event of a computer failure, the brake system would mechanically lock-up, stopping the car until such time as the system could be repaired. The beauty of the IG system was that its range was only limited by its vast power supply, and its firing time was negligible. For example, the driver of the Defender only needed to point the car in the general direction. The passenger could aim the emitter and fire an EMP at the target. And since Electrical Radiation travelled at the speed of light, the pulse would hit the target instantly and stop it dead in its tracks.  
  
In the beginning, the Viper Team had refused to test the prototype. A power source that was based on nuclear energy didn't sit well with the team. The Defender was situated within a civilian centre. One accident, one crack of the casing could potentially expose both the team and bystanders to dangerous levels of radiation. Though they had been repeatedly told that the casing was heavily armoured, they were nevertheless quite pensive about its energy source. But in the end they had been ordered to field-test the unit. Unfortunately, they had not counted on taking the Defender into a classified military installation and letting the techs dismantle the Defender piece by piece before putting it all back together again. A sense of unease still lingered with the team, knowing that the Defender's specs were in some military database. The Defender had been a well-kept secret until now, and the thought of others having access to its secrets did not sit well with the team. But there had been little choice. The IG system needed to be field-tested, and because of its highly-classified nature, the Viper Team fit the profile nicely.  
  
It was almost comical, being blindfolded and driven to who-knew-where, then guarded 24 hours by guards with automatic rifles. To Frankie it had been no big deal, but seeing his partners react to the situation had left him in stitches. Both Astor and Westlake (especially Westlake) did not like being blindfolded. They liked being guarded by soldiers even less. Both Astor and Westlake were stubborn, determined people, and they had had a rough time of it. It didn't help that the head technician was an incredibly attractive woman that, though she wore a military mechanic's uniform, couldn't hide her very feminine figure. The way she kept glancing at Astor, and the way his tongue kept on lolling out of his mouth, set Westlake on edge, and put her in a foul mood.  
  
'They should just boink and get it over with,' he thought, pushing the 'run' button on his touch-sensitive PDA.  
  
Letting the little computer run it's tests, he rested his head against the cool non-skid metal tread. He was very tired, and the inside of his eyelids felt like sandpaper. The installation of the IG unit had to be monitored constantly. It was up to him to make sure that the unit functioned in harmony with the Viper's other components. It was a lot of work, and Frankie felt very tired.  
  
*Beep* The small computer was finished.  
  
Frankie snapped out of his daydream and uncoupled the connector before storing the cables. It was the last check he had to make. The computer reported 100% success, meaning that the power source was good to go. Rolling up the cables, he heaved himself to his feet and wandered over to the kitchenette. Pouring himself an extra-strong brew of coffee, he nabbed a day-old doughnut and walked over to the couches.  
  
Sometimes he thought the layout of their headquarters was kinda weird. Hidden within the bowls of the city, the Team's headquarters was a heavily- modified subway hub. The Viper rested on a turnstile in the centre of the room. At various points along the walls were entrance tunnels that led to various unfinished subway routes, allowing quick and clandestine access to all parts of the city. Situated between the various tunnel entrances were a kitchenette, a relaxation centre, an expensive communications centre, and a repair bay. Built into the far wall were self-sufficient living quarters that tapped water directly from the city's water mains.  
  
'Kinda like the Batcave,' Frankie thought in good humour. He stretched out on one of the couches, taking a sip of his strong coffee.  
  
"Yo Frankie!"  
  
His eyes snapped open, and his hand flailed wildly…right into the full cup of coffee.  
  
Had it been there.  
  
"Whoa there Kimosabe!" Astor said, grinning as he held the cup of coffee out of the way.  
  
Frankie rubbed at his sleepy eyes, then stared blearily at Astor.  
  
Astor wore a tattered pull-over, reminiscent of his days spent living in the shadows. A former criminal whom had his memory erased against his will, he had turned against his own after witnessing his lover murdered by the very men he had led. Ironically, the tragedy caused him to use his vaunted criminal skills to exact revenge for the brutal slaying. After a long sojourn, Astor had been 'talked into' becoming a part of the Special Projects Division of the Metro Police Force.  
  
His long, serious face regarded Frankie as he handed him a warm cup of 'liquid octane'.  
  
"You look like you could get some more rest," he commented.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Maybe you ought to try my job," Frankie muttered. He took a gulp of the coffee, then spat it out.  
  
"What the hell-? You trying to kill me?!!" he sputtered, regarding the cup in his hands with disbelief.  
  
"What? I though it was good stuff!" Astor defended, brushing strands of hair out of his face. The lean man slowly backed away, consciously making sure his gun was readily accessible.  
  
Frankie glared at him. "This battery acid? Here, you try it."  
  
"Ummm…well…" Astor backed away slowly.  
  
"Hey you guys, what's going on?"  
  
Frankie turned to see Westlake approaching them. Brown, reddish hair framed an attractive face. Her blue eyes were crinkled, matching the wry grin on her face.  
  
"Joe just tried to kill me with this coffee."  
  
She took on an expression of surprise. "You let Joe make the coffee-?"  
  
"Hey! I was only trying to be nice," Joe said defensively, crossing his arms.  
  
"Yeah, well, next time leave the coffee machine alone. Just cause we're police officers doesn't mean occupational hazard includes coffee too. Don't wreck the coffee. It's sacrilege," Frankie said, draining the acrid liquid down the kitchen sink.  
  
Joe threw up his hands in disgust. "That's the last time I do anything nice for you."  
  
Westlake, an amused grin on her face, tried to change the subject. "So Frankie, how'd the date go?"  
  
Frankie stopped and stared at her, then turned a betrayed look on Joe. "How could you!"  
  
It was Joe's turn snicker. "It…er…slipped."  
  
"C'mon Frankie. You've been after Cindy for nearly a month now. That's a pretty long time, even for you. Really, how'd it go?"  
  
Surprisingly, Frankie looked down at his toes and shuffled his feet. "It…ummm…well…"  
  
"Frankie?" The work came out as a surprised question.  
  
"I didn't go," he confessed.  
  
"What?!!" both Westlake and Joe shouted.  
  
"You've been seeing her for a month, and then you ditch her on your first big date?" Westlake said in disbelief.  
  
Frankie sighed. "I was under orders from Catlett to finish the diagnostics on the IG."  
  
Joe and Heather looked upon Frankie with pity.  
  
BEEP  
  
A loud signal announced an incoming signal. Monitors around the communications centre began coming alive. As one, the team headed toward the horseshoe-shaped console.  
  
"Repeat. All units, officers down. Officers down. We have a Code 1 situation at the corner of 5th and Bankmore. Suspects heavily armed. Multiple shots fired. Civilian casualties. We need additional support -"  
  
A frantic, panic-filled voice cut in.  
  
"Get us some help now, godammit! We need fucking backup now! 6 guys with fucking rifles are shooting the shit outta us! They're armoured head to toe. Jesus! Get us some help!"  
  
Sound of gunshots, mixed in with the screaming of people could be heard in the background.  
  
"Let go!" Astor said, racing for the driver's door.  
  
Frankie leaped for the Operation's seat at the communications centre. He settled in as the powerful thrum of the Viper's engine filled the room. Donning a cordless headset, he glanced at the Viper and saw Westlake at work in the passenger seat. Displays popped up on the monitors, showing system check after system check scroll past the screen. He kept an eye on the information as it was relayed to him from the Viper's main computer.  
  
"Frankie, comm. check," Westlake's voice echoed in his ear.  
  
"I gotcha Westlake. Joe, take tunnel 5. It will get you within 3 blocks."  
  
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the Viper, with a roar of pure unadulterated power, shot forth from the turnstile, down the ramp, and plunged into the entrance tunnel.  
  
Frankie didn't watch the speedy exit. He was too busy calling up the information on the Code 1. Data flowed into the mainframes from the Police computers. He cycled through the available monitoring cameras placed strategically through the streets.  
  
"Oh my god," he whispered. 


	2. With Extreme Prejudice - Part 2

P.S. This is a work of fiction. Characters of Viper are not mine, nor do I claim any rights. Because this is a work of fiction, I have taken certain liberties with real world 'stuff'. Please don't roll your eyes in disbelief…too much. Enjoy.  
  
-WL  
  
  
  
1.1.1.1 WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE  
  
  
  
2 Chapter 2  
  
"Trevor!" Phil screamed, reaching out a hand to catch his partner. He caught his partner's deadweight as it fell to the ground.  
  
"Trevor! Trevor!" he yelled in anguish. The vacant eyes, the multiple holes torn through his partner's frag vest, told the rest of the story.  
  
He was dead.  
  
Phil felt his blood pound in his veins. He looked around the scene, taking in the devastation that was wrought before his eyes. At least nine police cars were scattered around his position. All were riddled with holes, looking for all the world like swiss-cheese. Most had smashed-in windshields and broken glass. Here and there, a fellow police officer cowered behind the front or rear tires, putting the most steel between them and death, just like they had been taught in basic training.  
  
The crack of more automatic fire filled the air, causing Phil to involuntarily duck down. He saw bullets rake the body of a cruiser across from his. The car, already a broken and shot-up hulk, was rocked to and fro from the storm of bullets. A lone police officer sat behind the front wheel. He held a civilian woman in his lap. Blood pooled around his legs from the gash in her chest. As glass rained down on the cop, Phil could see him shudder as his body was wracked with grief.  
  
A cold fury built inside Phil's body. A sense of aloofness invaded his body. The wanton destruction and death distanced him from his human emotions, until all he thought about was killing…  
  
Heedless of the bullets slamming into his car, he reached out and dragged the body of the Swat Officer to him. Grabbing the officer's rifle, he gave it a once over and ejected the magazine – it was full. He searched the officer's combat webbing and pulled out 4 more spares. The collage of battle filled the air. He gripped the rifle, then carefully, began easing his head around the rear bumper of his car.  
  
Two men dressed in bulky armour were alternating fire from behind a large car. A pair of shots rang out from Phil's left. Taken in haste, they completely missed the two suspects, but drew their attention. A fullisade of automatic fire erupted from their rifles, and a scream emanated somewhere from Phil's left.  
  
Slowly, slowly, Phil brought up his rifle. He eased it carefully around the corner as the assailants opened fire again. This time his car was ignored, and he was able to line up one of the suspects in his M-16's sight. His blood pounded, and his breath quickened, but he would not be hurried. Taking up the slack on the trigger, he took a deep breath, held it, and then released half of it. He squeezed the trigger while imagining an invisible line connecting his sights to the suspect's head. The shot surprised him. He saw the suspect's bullet-resistant helmet shield shatter, and his body flop down behind the car.  
  
The second suspect unleashed a full auto fullisade at his car, pounding it with bullets. But his aim had been hasty, his method more of a pray 'n spray, rather than surgical. His bullets came nowhere near Phil as he lined up his second shot.  
  
His second bullet spanged off the reinforced side of the car's windshield, missing the suspect. But the close hit caused the suspect to recoil, and Phil poured it on, sending bullet after bullet down the line. A primal cry filled the air. It took a few seconds for him to realize that he was the one yelling.  
  
CLICK  
  
Breathing heavily, Phil realized that his rifle had locked open on empty. He punched the release button with his right finger, then took a spare and slammed it home. Hitting the slide-release with his right thumb, he chambered a new bullet, then moved toward the front of his demolished cruiser. A hail of bullets slammed into the metalwork, driving him back into cover.  
  
Suddenly, a familiar smell assaulted his nose. He sniffed, then realized that the smell was gasoline. He realized that one of the bullets must have ruptured the gas-line. Sure enough, a puddle of fuel began growing beneath the car. More bullets tore into the car, and Phil did the only thing he could: he ran.  
  
The explosion lifted him off his feet and tossed him like a rag doll. He came down on the pavement hard, losing his grip on the rifle as his body slammed across the road. A sharp pain in his right arm signified a fracture. He could hear nothing save a ringing in his ears. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Though he hurt all over, Phil pushed himself to his feet and limped towards the next cruiser.  
  
He almost made it. Two bullets slammed into his back, sending him sprawling. The officer behind the closest cruiser tried to reach him, but he was brutally cut down in a withering hail of bullets. Phil opened his mouth in a silent scream of anguish. His back felt like someone had repeatedly stabbed him with an ice-pick the size of a baseball bat. He was only alive because of his bullet-resistant vest.  
  
Phil tried to get up, but his battered body had reached its limits. He collapsed in agony. Through slitted eyes, he saw one of the suspects walking through the smoke and fire. He was a demon of black, dressed in bulky ballistic gear that hid any and all semblance of his identity. The person had his rifle up, pointed at Phil's head. The assailant stopped short of Phil's prostrate form.  
  
He looked up into the barrel of a weapon.  
  
"Die Pig!" the suspect said.  
  
The last thing Phil saw was the trigger being squeezed.  
  
The roar of a cannon punched a fist-sized hole in the suspect. It plucked him up like he was nothing and threw him backwards. Like a vision, a lean silver car skidded past Phil, its tires smoking heavily from its full- powered stop. As he regarded the vehicle in shock, more bullets slammed into its shiny exterior…and bounced harmlessly off. He gaped in amazement, the pain in his back forgotten. Jet-like smoke shot from the rear end of a side-tube assembly, followed by a bright orange rocket that left the front. A split-second later, two explosions tore through the air.  
  
Suddenly it was silent. In the absence of gunfire or explosions, Phil could hear the moans and cries of people caught within the carnage. In the near distance, he could almost hear the ambulance sirens as they came closer. But above all, he felt more than heard the powerful thrum emanating from the silver car. The black-tinted windows did not reveal anything about the occupants of the mysterious car. It sat in the middle of the battlefield, a deadly predator seeking out further prey, unafraid of any threats, knowing that it was the meanest animal there. Then, as the ambulances came into sight, it gave one final growl before moving off, slowly meandering through the carnage of vehicles and bodies.  
  
Against his will, Phil's vision went black.  
  
Frankie wearily heaved himself to his feet as the Viper entered the Complex.  
  
"Guys," he said solemnly as Astor and Westlake got out of the silver car, "you'll wanna hear this."  
  
Astor gave him a look that said, 'this had better not be more bad news'. Westlake did not look much better off.  
  
"How could this happen?" she muttered. Slamming the door shut, she clenched her fists in frustration.  
  
"Westlake, I'm sorry. We got there as fast as we could," Astor said.  
  
She looked up at Astor's knowing gaze, then back down. Opening her mouth, she prepared a rebuke, but came short of saying it. Tears threatened to spring fourth, but she vehemently fought to maintain her composure. Astor's arms encircled her, pulling her close. She let herself meld into him, resting her head on his chest.  
  
"Five of my friends are dead. Just like that," she whispered, her voice laden with sorrow.  
  
Astor looked at Frankie, who looked back sullenly. He was at a loss. Only once had they seen their partner so shell-shocked. Westlake worked so hard to maintain a stoic image. Being a woman in a man-driven profession was hard enough. But being who she was, the pupil of a highly regarded police officer, a legend really, was enough to bring out the animosity in many jealous male officers. She had fought hard to get to where she was, and had carved out a well-deserved and respected reputation. To see her like this, deflated and so vulnerable, underscored the situation.  
  
"We'll get them," Joe said, rubbing her shoulders. "You know we will."  
  
Wearily she nodded her head. "Thanks Joe- "  
  
BEEP  
  
She was cut off by communications console. As tired as they were, they turned as one and strode to the monitors. An image came on the central monitor. He had short-cropped hair that stood straight up. An intense expression of scrutiny dominated his angular face.  
  
"Sherman Catlett. What an honour," Joe said, his voice laden with sarcasm.  
  
The man on the monitor seemed to sneer at Joe. Catlett was the FBI liaison with the Project. During the conceptual planning of the Viper Project, it was deemed that a Federal Agency would oversee the operations of the experimental program. Unfortunately for the Team, Catlett was, more often than not, a pain-in-the-ass. His ambition and dedication to his goals of power made him extremely difficult to work with. It also made him overbearing and vain.  
  
"Sarcasm does not suit you Joe," he answered, his pronunciation of each word precise and curt.  
  
"What do you want Catlett," Westlake asked. Her patience with Catlett was at an all-time low.  
  
"You screwed up," he stated. His icy glare regarded them with scorn.  
  
The Team was taken aback.  
  
"What the hell are you talking about?" Frankie demanded.  
  
Catlett leaned toward the video pickup. "I am talking about an hour ago. I sent you a priority transmission which you conveniently block out."  
  
"We were on alert status. Take a number Catlett," Frankie icily replied.  
  
"Yes. And that transmission and its contents was in direct relation to your current mission. You were decoyed."  
  
"What?!!" Westlake spit out. She stabbed a finger at him. "Five of my friends are dead! We saved countless lives. And here you are, telling us that we did the wrong thing. You sonovabitch!"  
  
She reached for the cut off button, when Catlett's voice stopped her.  
  
"I'm sorry about your loss Westlake. I truly am," he answered in a voice that bordered on caring. It was a rare occasion when they heard him do that.  
  
Westlake stopped and resumed standing.  
  
Catlett took a breath. "What I'm about to tell you is highly classified. It could end my career."  
  
The three of them regarded Catlett with shock. Catlett never spoke that way. Ever. His career was everything. Not once had they known him to sacrifice anything in the way of his career. His last sentence was so out of character, it stupefied them into silence.  
  
"Ten miles straight east of MetroTown is an abandoned industrial complex. Only it's not as abandoned as it seemed. This was the site of a military storage area. Its function was to store various disassembled parts until such time as it would be deemed necessary to retrieve them."  
  
"Why weren't we told about this?" Frankie demanded.  
  
Catlett's eyes flashed. "I was a need-to-know basis. Don't interrupt me. I'm risking my job by telling you this."  
  
"Ohhhhh, so sorry."  
  
"Anyways, there is an important history to this depot. It's not a big secret that the US military is always researching new weapon designs. What is a big secret is that military R&D sometimes, with the help of private contractors, develops prototypes that are deemed too advanced for current use."  
  
Astor spoke up. "I don't get it. If the military has developed highly advanced weaponry, wouldn't that give them more superiority than other country? Why hide anything like that?"  
  
"You don't get it. It does not work that way. Look, I don't have the details, but let's just say that there are people who believe that we can't advance that fast."  
  
"Huh?" Frankie asked.  
  
Catlett shook his head in irritation. "Don't ask me. I don't understand it myself. What I do know is that we're in deep shit. During yesterday's incident, while you guys conveniently blocked out all calls, a break-in occurred at the military depot. The thieves made off with some very advanced weapon components. This hit was also staged in concert with four other hits. At each location, classified equipment was stolen. Here's the kicker: the components are part of a weapon that was involved in an FBI scandal five years ago. I'm sending you the particulars by courier."  
  
Again the Team was surprised.  
  
"By courier?!!" Frankie asked, stunned.  
  
"Yes by courier. This information is way too classified. I'm not going to risk sending it over the air."  
  
"How sensitive can it be?" Joe asked.  
  
Catlett fidgeted uncharacteristically. "Let's just say…it dates back to the days of the Ronald Regan Star Wars project."  
  
"Awww shit," Frankie muttered. "You mean mobile laser platforms."  
  
"I don't know. I've burned a lot of favours just getting this far. No one can tell me exactly what it is."  
  
Frankie rolled his eyes. Typical. "Then how are we supposed to find this super-duper weapon of yours?"  
  
"It's not mine," Catlett grated.  
  
"Fine. But it's your problem," Westlake stated. "Why bring us into this? It sounds like an internal FBI matter."  
  
Sweat began to bead up on Catlett's forehead. "Look. Just look into this for me."  
  
He glanced down. "I've been on too long. Guys…be careful."  
  
"Hey Catlett! What's going-" Frankie started.  
  
Catlett's image blinked out  
  
"Catlett! What the heck?" Frankie asked no one in particular.  
  
The three of them stood in silence, staring at the FBI logo that dominated the screen.  
  
"Okay. Am I the only one who's weirded out by that?" Frankie commented.  
  
"No, no. You're definitely not alone there," Astor chimed in. He regarded the other two. "I've never seen him like that. Weird."  
  
Frankie looked at him. "I just said that."  
  
Westlake began walking toward the exit. With the conversation over, her melancholy mood had returned. Joe noticed and hurried over.  
  
He gently approached her. "Hey. Want some company?"  
  
She hesitated, then glanced furtively up at him, and then back down. "No, not really."  
  
Joe could tell a lie when he saw one. "Do you want me to go away?"  
  
He could see her fight an internal battle. On one hand, she was still in shock over the last few hours – they all were. But on the other hand, she didn't want to be alone just then.  
  
She glanced up at him again. This time, her eyes glistened with tears. "No."  
  
He gently put his arms around her and led her towards the Viper. 


	3. With Extreme Prejudice - Part 3

P.S. This is a work of fiction. Characters of Viper and La Femme Nikita are not mine, nor do I claim any rights. Because this is a work of fiction, I have taken certain liberties with real world 'stuff'. Please don't roll your eyes in disbelief…too much. Enjoy.  
  
- WL  
  
  
  
1.1 Chapter 3  
  
Two weeks later.  
  
The rafters were caked with dust and bird droppings. Shafts of sunlight lit the dim warehouse intermittently. Dust clogged every surface, and was a testament to how long it had been abandoned.  
  
On the ground floor were two figures. They stood as still as mannequins. Both were dress in plain black business suits. Both wore dark sunglasses that hid their features. One was male and the other was female. Neither made any movement, save for the rhythmic movement of their breathing. They stood there, unmoving, even when the massive garage door at the other end began creaking up along its rusty track.  
  
A black stretch limo drove into the warehouse. The garage door was lowered, cutting off the one source of bright sunlight, and restoring darkness to the warehouse. An expensively dressed gentleman exited the car, followed by a man and woman bodyguard. The middle figure was Rick Dugros. A much sought-after arms dealer, he specialized in exotic hardware and military items. Standing six foot one, he cut an imposing figure with his massive physique and rugged looks. Standing beside his limo, he gave the two figures a careful look. Then, satisfied with what he saw, he strode up to the two figures.  
  
He pointedly ignored the female and addressed the male.  
  
"Mr. Smith I presume," he said in a gravely voice.  
  
The black shades revealed nothing. There was an uncomfortable pause before the man answered.  
  
"Mr. Dugros. How niiiice of you to come," the man answered. His voice was chilling. It lacked emotion or human timing, and resembled a machine more than anything.  
  
Poker-faced, Dugros replied, "Let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?"  
  
"Let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?"  
  
"You getting this Frankie?" Joe asked.  
  
The image was clear as day, if a little jerky. It showed the gathering from a higher angle. Westlake was hovering the Viper's remote drone near one of the upper windows. The image bobbed gently while the drone's gyro system fought to maintain a static position in the breeze.  
  
Joe and Westlake were parked 1 km away from the warehouse. Both of them were watching the scene on the Defender's primary monitor. Westlake glanced up once in a while, checking the auxiliary monitors for any movement around their position.  
  
"Yeah Joe. I got it Five by Five. Coming in clean as a whistle."  
  
Joe manipulated the probe's video controls and zoomed in on the two mysterious faces. "Frankie, see if you can get an ID on them."  
  
"I'm gonna have to do a multi-spectral analysis Joe. The computer is gonna have to do a reconstruction because of their sunglasses."  
  
"Well…whatever!"  
  
"Stay sharp guys," Westlake interrupted. "Looks like the buy is going down."  
  
Fuelled by the need for revenge, the entire police force, assisted by the Viper Team, had put in an exhaustive effort to track down the people responsible for the deaths of so many fellow officers. But the leads had been far and in between. Of those few, most had lead to dead ends. It wasn't until, by freak chance, a teenager who sold handguns on the street had recognized one of Rick Dugros's top people when he frequented an illegal gambling casino. Ironically, the same teenager had been caught while committing a B&E, then promptly released after spilling the information on what he saw.  
  
Very carefully, the police force had used this information to their advantage.  
  
Now, after carefully determining that the area was secure via some high-flying drone reconnaissance, Astor and Westlake waited in the silver Defender while Frankie monitored the situation from their hidden HQ. A carefully orchestrated move had resulted in an emplaced ring of hidden SWAT officers, who eager to get some revenge for their murdered comrades.  
  
Westlake hit the 'send' button. "Westlake to squad leaders. Stand- by."  
  
A chorus of affirmatives drifted in.  
  
"Do you have the merchandise?" Mr. Smith asked in a monotone, but cold voice.  
  
Duros maintained his stoic stance. "Yes we do."  
  
He folded his hands. "However, there has been some difficulty in the transaction. And it will cost you."  
  
The woman and the man fell silent. There was no movement in the garage for a full minute. Finally, the man spoke.  
  
"No."  
  
Duros unfolded his hands. "No?"  
  
The man reached up with his hands and removed his sunglasses, revealing a stone-cold face. His eyes were made of chiselled ice, and they stared at Duros without emotion.  
  
The shock was evident on Duros's face when he looked at the man.  
  
"No."  
  
Recovering quickly, Duro's allowed a grim smile to cross his face. "I know you. Well, well. Paul Wolfe. It's been a long time."  
  
The man also grinned slightly, though it was more of a predatory smile that never reached his icy eyes. "Too long Duros. I've had my eye on you for a very long time."  
  
Chuckling, Duros exuded confidence, unmindful of the perilous company he was facing. "I'll be you have. Let's see. Ah yes, I remember running a black-ops mission into China under your direction. I have to say; it was one of the most ruthless assassination missions I've ever taken. And I thought the Vietnamese were bad. They were angels compared to you…sir. "  
  
He shook his head mirthfully. "Paul Wolfe. After all these years." He squared his shoulders and stared fully at the man. His expression hardened to match the other's cool intensity.  
  
"After Vietnam you were drafted into an unknown intelligence service at the behest of the President himself. Want to know how I know that? I know, because I was also asked myself."  
  
"Whoa!" Joe said. The car was silent as him and Westlake watched with a detached horror. Even Frankie was uncharacteristically silent.  
  
A look of amusement spread on the man's face. It did nothing to dispel the coldness of his words. "And you were rejected."  
  
Duros's face became stormy. "I wasn't 'suited' for the job. Some job Wolfe. Protect the world against any terrorist threat, using any means at your disposal – including the sacrifice of innocent lives. Employ criminals by faking their deaths in various prisons around the world. Use them, then dispose of them. Pretty smooth, using dead people who don't exist. Still, I gotta hand it to you Wolfe, not even I would be crazy enough to employ rapists, murderers, and the like. Must be one scary organization to keep them all in line. Even scarier knowing the US government has these programs."  
  
"I tire of this Duros. You'll be happy to know that you've cost me much resources tracking you down."  
  
"Holy shit…" Frankie said over the comm. "Are you guys getting this?"  
  
"We're getting this," Westlake responded, tight-lipped. She heard Joe softly swear under his breath. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything like this. The implications of what she had heard where astounding, not to mention frightening. She wasn't sure…  
  
"Hold on," they heard Frankie say. "I just picked up another carrier wave in the area. It's a military carrier wave! The point of origin is…"  
  
Just then, the man in the black overcoat tilted his head to one side. His face took on a semblance of surprise, then anger. Without mistake, he glanced directly up and into the camera of the probe.  
  
"I got it! It's directly in a location directly opposite of the SWAT team!"  
  
Joe was already reaching for the ignition button "Save it Frankie. We've been made!"  
  
A powerful thrum filled the cockpit as the engine roared to life. Westlake keyed the comm. "All squads. Go! Go! Go!"  
  
Suddenly, from previously vacant areas, figures materialized and began running in precise military assault formations.  
  
Westlake called back the probe. The last images that she and Astor saw were the two figures in black, guns blazing from their hands, and the bloodied bodies of the weapon's dealer and his cronies hitting the floor.  
  
A sudden massive acceleration slammed her back into her conforming seat as Astor gunned the high-performance engine. She gritted her teeth and hung onto the grips as the car howled through the gears. In a burst of acceleration, the silver machine was sent streaking along the ground, each second increasing its speed at a pace that would have been the envy of exotic cars.  
  
With the nod of a head, a heavily armoured officer in black SWAT combats ripped open the door. A flash bang was heaved through the entrance and the door slammed shut. With the power of a thousand candles, and a thunderclap that rendered a person deaf, the flashbang exploded inside the warehouse.  
  
"Go! Go! Go!"  
  
SWAT officers poured through the doorways in a complicated, but lethal spread pattern. Their weapons weaved though a carefully choreographed dance as they infiltrated the inner warehouse.  
  
They found only dead bodies. The two figures in black were gone.  
  
"What?"  
  
Westlake and Astor listened in disbelief.  
  
"We've secured the perimeter. But the shooters are gone. Everyone here is dead."  
  
"How can that be?" Westlake asked. "What about the snipers?"  
  
"Negative. Snipers did not see anyone enter or exit the building."  
  
Joe braked the car beside the building. Westlake activated the probe again. They watched as the image of the ground receded at a rapid pace. A thermal image was overplayed on the main screen.  
  
He shook his head. "I can't believe it. Besides us and the SWAT officers, there's no one in sight!"  
  
"Who are these guys, Houdini?" Frankie radioed.  
  
"I'll bet their signal source is their mobile HQ. Frankie. Where's that signal source coming from? They have to be heading for it."  
  
The picture shifted to an overhead view of the area. A blinking red dot represented the fixed point.  
  
"There. The signal is still strong."  
  
Joe slammed the car in gear and let out the clutch. As the car sped away, Westlake relayed the information to the SWAT team.  
  
As the car bounced over the rough terrain, Westlake unholstered her Glock and checked the magazine. Joe twisted the wheel, sending the car side-slipping to avoid a pile of metal refuse. There, not 200 yards away, was a nondescript black van. It was well-hidden among the burned out black pipes and gutted walls. As they closed, grey smoke issued from the wheels as the van burned rubber and took off.  
  
The silver car matched the van, staying on its rear end as the driver gunned for the exit.  
  
"This is the Police. Pull over! I repeat, pull over."  
  
The red strobe light blooded the rear of the van, which showed no signs of stopping.  
  
Gripping the wheel tightly, Joe said, "Use the IG. Let's see how it works."  
  
Westlake nodded and enabled the IG circuits. A whine suddenly filled the cockpit. It built from a low frequency and passed the human audible range in one second.  
  
"Let's do it," Westlake said. She reached for the trigger…  
  
The rear doors burst open. Commandos dressed in combat blacks held nightmarish weapons in their hands. Rockets leaped from the under-barrel launchers on the weapons.  
  
Joe had already twitched the wheel to the right, sending Westlake slamming into the wall. But as fast as he was, he was unable to dodge the rocket. At close range, the rockets hit the windshield in front of Westlake  
  
Officer Jake Edwards watched in horror as the rockets impacted on the silver machine. A fireball consumed the vehicle, leaving no doubt that the occupants were dead.  
  
"Fire!" he yelled. Above and around the Site, snipers and tactical police officers opened fire with their weapons. Round after round hit the black van, but to no effect. Bullets bounced off the obviously armoured exterior. For all the world, they might have been throwing spit wads at the fleeing van.  
  
The officer did a double-take as the silver car emerged from the fireball. Its exterior was fire-scorched and its windshield was shattered, but it moved to point itself in the general direction of the van.  
  
Unexpectedly, the van suddenly screeched to a halt. The police officers held their fire as their superiors yelled for the occupants to surrender. When they got no response, the officers gritted their teeth and moved in to take the van down.  
  
A blue flash erupted from the side of the silver car. The charge impacted on the metal of the van. Arcs of electricity played over the body of the van.  
  
Officer Jake Edwards put a hand to his ear, then nodded. "Go! Go! Go!" he yelled. At the signal, a surge of police officers converged on the van. With multiple arcs of fire covering them, two officers reached for the handles and tore the doors open.  
  
Shouts of "Freeze!" and "Get down!" echoed as SWAT Team members moved forward. But the shouts gradually died away. There was no movement from the inside of the van. All the occupants had been rendered unconscious by the pulse charge from the silver car.  
  
"Joe! Westlake! Are you guys alright?"  
  
Joe coughed. Acrid smoke filled the cockpit. The smell of fried electronics seared his throat. Beside him, Westlake cracked open her window.  
  
"Jesus!" she coughed. "What the hell was that? Those weren't normal 40mm grenades!"  
  
"Yeah," Joe rasped. "Custom-packed explosives."  
  
He turned to look at Westlake. "Tell me why I took this job again?"  
  
"You like being shot at?"  
  
"Ugh, try again."  
  
"Westlake, you okay?"  
  
"Yeah Frankie." She looked down. There was a spot of blood on here shirt, right where the piece of glass had cleaved through her shoulder harness.  
  
"Whydya know? Seatbelts do save lives," Joe said, looking at her shoulder.  
  
Westlake saw the concern in his eyes. She tried to lighten the situation up with a smile.  
  
In a voice too soft to be picked up by the radio, she said "I'm okay."  
  
"Yeah, well, we're getting it looked at," Joe replied in a stern voice.  
  
"Whatever," she said dismissively.  
  
They both watched as the police handcuffed the unconscious commandos and searched the van.  
  
"Waitaminute…something's ain't right here…"  
  
Westlake became alert. "What is it Frankie?"  
  
"I hate it when he says that," Joe muttered.  
  
"When I first found the van, I scanned the interior. There were 5 people in the van."  
  
"So?" West asked.  
  
"Sooooo, there still are five people in the van. Where'd the other two go?"  
  
Westlake activated their comm. "Officer Edwards. Please come in."  
  
"This is Edwards. Go ahead."  
  
"We have two unaccounted for suspects. Has anyone breached the perimeter?"  
  
In the background, she could hear him issuing orders to tighten the perimeter.  
  
"Negative. That's a negative. When were the suspects last seen?"  
  
"Inside the warehouse."  
  
"The warehouse is secure. There are no live bodies in there. I'll advise my men to be on the lookout. We'll start a search of the site immediately. Edwards out."  
  
"Frankie, see what you can do," Joe said.  
  
"You got it. Better launch the probe."  
  
With a mechanical whine, the rear armour of the Defender slid back. Twin air thrusters spooled up, then the small VTOL craft launched upwards from its bay. Monitors came alive on the consoles as the computer system began receiving telemetry from the probe. Real-time video, both in normal vision and thermograph, scrolled past the screens. Two hundred feet in the air, the probe made a lazy arc around the site. Its receptors scanned the ground.  
  
"Hold it!" Westlake exclaimed.  
  
The image wobbled, then steadied on the screen as the probe went into hover- mode.  
  
"Yeah, I see it. Looks like two warm bodies running through the sewer system."  
  
Joe twisted the wheel, put the car into gear, and raced for an intercept point. Westlake relayed the information to Officer Edwards. A virtual sea of heavily armed men ran for the nearest sewer access.  
  
The images on the screen were updated with a wire-skeleton plan. Information on the immediate sewer corridors was being sent to the onboard computer.  
  
"There!" Westlake pointed to an area of the screen.  
  
Joe looked down, then looked up. "Got it."  
  
The silver car screeched to a halt in front of a sewer drain…and died.  
  
"What the…?" Joe said. He turned the starter, but to no avail.  
  
"Frankie!"  
  
"I know, I know! The battery's fried. You probably have acid all over the engine!"  
  
"Well, what about the EMP power supply?"  
  
"It's not tricked out to power the engine!"  
  
"Lack of planning?" Joe said sarcastically as he opened his door. Westlake did the same.  
  
"More like military threats against tampering. We're not supposed to…"  
  
The rest was lost as Joe and Westlake exited the car. Both drew their guns and faced the sewer entrance. Westlake nodded at the cover. Putting away his gun, Joe moved to the cover and bent down to lift it.  
  
"GET DOWN!"  
  
At Frankie's yell, they both threw themselves away from the manhole cover, just as it rocketed up in an explosion. Two black-clad figures boiled up from within the manhole.  
  
Westlake got her feet under her – just in time to receive a kick to the chest from one of the assailants. Reacting quickly, she grabbed the foot and pulled the person down with her.  
  
Joe's quick driving reflexes stopped a boot meant for his head. But his arm erupted in pain as he blocked the kick. A fist blurred for his head. He twisted out of the way and pulled his gun. A knife sliced into his wrist, making him drop the gun. A hammer blow rocked him, sending flashes across his vision. A knee to the stomach sent him to his knees. The need to vomit made itself made.  
  
He became pissed. Joe launched himself into his attacker's midsection, and bore the two of them to the ground.  
  
Westlake fell backwards, intending to make the fight a brawl on the ground. But her assailant had other ideas. Twisting in midair, bright blonde hair trailed in the air as she whipped her foot around in an inside kick. Westlake saw it coming, and managed to turn her head away. She received a grazing impact on the side of her head before she hit the ground.  
  
She rolled with the impact, and came up with her gun pointed at her assailant.  
  
And found herself staring into the blackness of a gun barrel.  
  
The two women faced each other, guns drawn and pointed at one another's heads.  
  
(author's sidenote: John Woo moment – couldn't resist ()  
  
"Police. Drop your weapon," Westlake said.  
  
Pale blue eyes regarded her steadily. The other woman didn't blink. Not one muscle moved on the finely chiselled face of her assailant.  
  
"Drop it!" Westlake ordered.  
  
"No, you drop your weapon," a cold voice said from beside her. The cold steel of a barrel was placed against her temple.  
  
Westlake's heart skipped a beat. She wanted to look to the side, to what happened to Joe.  
  
Red dots suddenly appeared on the chests of the two assailants. Like blooded pins, they stood unwavering on their torsos.  
  
An army of SWAT officers and cops surrounded them. A heavily armed officer centered his MP-5 on the man.  
  
"Drop your weapons. Do it right now!"  
  
For a minute, silence ensued. No one moved.  
  
Westlake's eyes never left the woman. Steely resolve settled her fears. Her guns' rear and front sights were unwaveringly centered on the woman's forehead. To her credit, the blonde woman's gaze never faltered. The blue eyes stared fearlessly back at her. They were measuring, confident, and disconcertingly calculating.  
  
Then, slowly, the gun in the blonde's hand lowered.  
  
"What are you doing!!?" the voice beside Westlake demanded.  
  
"Drop your weapon," she directed at the man, though her gaze never left Westlake's eyes. Her voice was low and firm, but surprisingly sensuous, characterized by an accent.  
  
For another minute, nothing happened. For the first time, the blonde took her eyes off Westlake and looked to her left.  
  
"Do it."  
  
Another hesitation.  
  
The barrel was removed from Westlake's head. Two guns clattered to the ground. Police surged forward to apprehend the assailants.  
  
Westlake finally turned to find Joe being helped up by two police officers. His right wrist was bloody. Blood seeped between the fingers of his left and as he applied pressure to stop the bleeding.  
  
"Sir, let's get you to the paramedics," one officer said, leading the way toward the waiting ambulances.  
  
"Asshole cut me," Joe said, answering Westlake's worried gaze. He shook his head. "Never seen anyone move so fast."  
  
"They're Mercs, or something," Westlake agreed. She walked with him to the ambulance.  
  
As the paramedics looked at the wound, she and Joe saw military cargo trucks and a heavily armed escort pull up to the warehouse.  
  
"Looks like they found the weapons," Joe commented.  
  
*RING*  
  
Westlake came up with her phone.  
  
"Westlake".  
  
"It's Frankie. The Defender's toast. I'm coming with a tow truck. You guys ok?"  
  
"Joe got cut. Other than that, we got them and the military supplies. Uh huh, alright, see you later."  
  
Joe glanced at the phone. "Frankie?"  
  
"Yep. He says the tow truck is on the way, and that you should learn to dodge."  
  
A slight smile crept onto her face.  
  
"Yeah, Ok. Maybe next time he can fight a trained Merc."  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "Hey! I did just fine. I think you just gotta get in shape."  
  
Westlake playfully slapped his belly, which made Joe jump.  
  
"Stand still sir!" a female paramedic ordered.  
  
"Yeah, yeah…" Joe grumbled.  
  
"Shhhhh!" Westlake admonished. 


End file.
